Chapter 11 #2
The resolution is grainy, but he's good at his job.
Slowly, the license plate comes into focus.
"Got it." He reads off the numbers, already typing them into another program. "Running it now."
We wait.
The seconds stretch into eternity.
I'm aware of my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
Aware of the sweat on my palms, the tension in my jaw.
Aware that somewhere out there, Dalla is in the hands of a woman who wants her dead.
Hold on, love. I'm coming.
"Registered to an LLC," Vanir announces. "Sunshine Holdings, Inc. Florida corporation, registered three years ago."
"Can you trace it?"
"Already on it." His fingers fly across the keyboard. "Shell company. No obvious connections to any individual. But they own property..." He pauses, eyes scanning the screen. "Here we go. Sunshine Holdings owns a farm about an hour outside the city. Sixty acres, isolated, no neighbors for miles."
My gut clenches.
An isolated farm.
The perfect place to hold someone.
The perfect place to do whatever you want to them without anyone hearing the screams.
"That's where she is," I say.
"You don't know that for certain," Runes says, but there's no conviction in his voice.
He knows it too. We all do.
"It fits Freya's MO," Vanir adds quietly. "She always operated from isolated properties. Places where she could control access, control the environment. If her daughter learned from her..."
"Then that's where she'd take Dalla." Runes nods slowly, his jaw tight. "Okay. We go."
"Wait." I turn to him, something occurring to me. "Tor. He knew Freya. He might know the property, might know the layout. Any advantage we can get—"
"Already called him." Runes holds up his phone. "He's on his way."
Tor arrives within minutes, his face grim.
"Show me the location," he says without waiting for any of us to say a word.
Vanir pulls up satellite imagery of the farm.
It's exactly what I expected—a main house, several outbuildings, all surrounded by empty fields and dense tree lines.
One road in, one road out.
Easy to defend.
Hard to approach without being seen.
"I think I know this place," Tor says quietly.
We all turn to look at him.
"Freya used to own a property near here. I heard it from the other kids. Different name, different shell company, but the same area." His jaw tightens. "She called it the farm. It's where she... processed the girls. Before moving them to buyers."
The word "processed" hangs in the air, ugly and heavy.
I don't want to think about what that means.
Don't want to imagine Dalla in a place like that.
"The layout will be similar to what Freya used," Tor continues. "Main house for living quarters. Barn or outbuilding for holding people. Usually a basement or underground space for the recordings—harder to hear screaming."
Runes' hands curl into fists. "My daughter is in there."
"I know." Tor's voice is steady, but I can see the pain in his eyes. This is hitting close to home for him too—the legacy of Freya, the things she made him do when he was young. "That's why I'm going to help you get her out."
"The approach is the problem," Vanir says, studying the satellite image. "Open fields on all sides. They'll see us coming from a mile away."
"Not if we come at night," I say.
"It's barely two o'clock. We'd have to wait hours—" Tor says.
"I'm not waiting." The words come out hard as iron. "Every minute she's in there is a minute too long. We go now."
"RJ—" Runes starts.
"You can wait if you want. I'm going." I meet his eyes, and whatever he sees there makes him pause. "That woman has your daughter. She has the woman I love. And I will burn that farm to the ground and everyone in it to get her back. With or without your help."
Silence stretches between us.
I know I'm being reckless.
Know that a daylight assault on a fortified position is tactically stupid.
Every training manual, every instructor I've ever had, would tell me to wait.
Gather more intel. Plan a night approach. Minimize risk.
But I can't think about tactics right now.
Can't think about anything except Dalla, unconscious, bleeding, in the hands of a monster.
Can't think about the baby—our baby—and what stress like this might do to a pregnancy.
If I wait until nightfall, she could be dead.
Or worse.
Solveig has been planning this for years.
She's not going to let her prize go easily.
"We go now," Runes says finally. His voice is rough, like he's fighting to keep it steady. "But we do it smart. Vanir, what do we have for vehicles?"
"Three trucks, eight bikes. We can move about twenty men."
"Make it happen. I want everyone armed and ready to roll in fifteen minutes." Runes turns to Tor. "You're with me. I want everything you know about how Freya operated—entry points, defensive positions, anything that might help."
Tor nods, his face grim. "Whatever you need. I owe Dalla that much."
Runes looks at me last.
His expression is complicated—anger, fear, respect, all tangled together.
This is the man who's wanted to kill me since the moment he saw me with his daughter.
Now he's trusting me to save her life.
"You're point on this," he says. "She's your woman. You lead the breach."
"Understood."
"And RJ?" He steps closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "When we find Solveig—she's yours. You do what needs to be done. Make it hurt."
I think about Dalla's blood in the dirt.
Her bag, torn from her shoulder.
The way they carried her limp body into that van like she was nothing.
Like she was cargo.
Like she was merchandise to be processed.
I think about the pregnancy test in my pocket.
The baby she was going to tell me about tonight.
"I intend to."
The next fifteen minutes are controlled chaos.
Prospects scramble to prep vehicles, loading weapons and ammunition into the trucks.
Club members emerge from every corner of the compound, their faces grim, ready for war.
Word has spread—the president's daughter has been taken.
And the Raiders of Valhalla are going to get her back.
I watch them gather, these men who barely know me, who have no reason to trust an outsider from Dublin.
But they're suiting up anyway.
Checking magazines.
Strapping on Kevlar.
Because Dalla is one of them, and when you hurt one Raider, you hurt them all.
I load my weapons.
Glock 19 in my shoulder holster—fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber.
Sig Sauer P320 on my hip—seventeen rounds.
AR-15 for the assault, with three extra magazines strapped to my vest.
Combat knife strapped to my thigh—the same one Da gave me when I turned eighteen, the one that's never let me down.
Enough firepower to start a small war.
Which is exactly what we're about to do.
My hands are steady as I check each weapon, but inside I'm anything but calm.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face.
The way she looked at me this morning, nervous and excited about something she wanted to tell me.
The way she said "I love you more than you know."
Now I know what she meant. Now I understand.
She was going to tell me about the baby. Our baby.
The pregnancy test is burning a hole in my pocket.
I couldn't leave it behind, couldn't let anyone else find it.
That's her news to share.
Her secret to tell.
When I get her back—and I will get her back—she can tell me herself.
What was she feeling this morning?
Scared? Excited? Both?
Did she lie in bed next to me, watching me sleep, thinking about the future she was carrying inside her?
I push the thoughts away.
They're not helping.
They're making me feel things I can't afford to feel right now—tenderness, hope, love.
Those emotions are dangerous in combat.
They make you hesitant.
They make you weak.
Right now, I need to be a weapon. Cold and efficient and utterly without mercy.
"RJ."
I turn to find Runes standing behind me, his own weapons strapped on, his expression hard as granite.
He looks older than he did this morning.
More worn. Like the last hour has aged him ten years.
"We're almost ready to roll," he says. "Two minutes."
"Good."
He doesn't move.
Just stands there, watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
Eyes that remind me of Dalla's, though I'd never tell him that.
"She means something to you," he says finally. "I knew that. Didn't want to admit it, but I knew." He pauses. "I'm trusting you with her life."
"I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." His jaw tightens. "Because if you did, I'd kill you myself."
It should be a threat.
But the way he says it—tired, scared, desperate—it sounds more like a prayer.
Like he's asking me to be the thing he can't be right now.
The calm in the storm.
The weapon that doesn't miss.
The man who brings his daughter home.
"I'm going to bring her home," I say. "Whatever it takes."
"There's something else." He hesitates, which isn't like him. "When you find Solveig—when you end this—I want you to know... you have my blessing. Whatever happens after. With Dalla."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
All those death glares, all that silent hostility, all that protective father energy—and now this.
Now, when his daughter is missing and we're about to ride into battle, he's giving me his blessing.
"Thank you," I manage.
He nods once, then he turns and walks toward the trucks, barking orders at the prospects loading gear.
I take one last breath, one last moment of stillness.
Then I follow him out into the sunlight, where an army of bikers is waiting to ride to war.
The ride takes less than an hour.
I count every single minute.
Every mile marker, every intersection, every bend in the road.
We're a convoy of violence—three black trucks and eight motorcycles, moving with grim purpose through the Florida afternoon.
I'm in the lead truck with Runes and Tor, studying the satellite imagery on a tablet, memorizing every detail of the property.
The main house is two stories, probably four or five rooms on each floor.
The barn is behind it, big enough to hold a dozen people.
There's a smaller outbuilding to the east that Tor thinks might be a guard station or equipment shed.
"She'll be in the barn," Tor says. "Or the basement of the main house. Freya always kept her... merchandise... separate from living quarters."
I hate that word. Merchandise.
Like the women she trafficked were products, not people.
"How many guards can we expect?" Runes asks.
"Hard to say. Freya usually had six to eight men on a property this size. But Solveig's been building her operation for years. Could be more."
"We have twenty," I say. "Better odds than most of the fights I've been in."
"You Brotherhood boys and your 'better odds.'" Tor shakes his head, but there's a ghost of a smile on his face. "All right. Let's go over the approach one more time."
We plan and re-plan, working through scenarios, identifying contingencies.
It's what I'm trained for—tactical assessment, strategic thinking, violence.
But underneath the soldier's calm, something feral is pacing.
Hold on, Dalla. I'm coming.